A Story

So, today, my kids were upstairs, entertaining themselves with the usual shenanigans. You know the drill. Loud noises. Slamming doors. Running feet. The occasional cry. The basics. When, not so surprisingly, Jane let out a shriek. Oh how I hate when the shrieking starts, but given long enough, the shrieking will always start.

Upon investigation, I found that Charlie had taken a toy power drill and pummelled Jane over the head with it. Typical. Charlie's been on a hitting streak lately, or a beating streak, if that's what you call it when one hits another person with a weapon. That drill has been his favorite weapon for too many days now and quite frankly, I was sick of it. So I did what every rational person would do.

I opened up my second story window and sent the toy drill hurtling towards the unforgiving pavement below with all the strength that my surprisingly weak and underutilized right arm could manage.

I know. It's not all that impressive a picture. I thought about running over the thing with my car before I took a picture to create a more dramatic scene, but that would be a little crazy. And since I think I've proven with the last couple posts that I am certainly NOT a crazy person, I couldn't do something like that.

Basically, I threw the thing out the window. And it broke. And Charlie knew it. Point made. I put him in his room and turned to see Jane looking up at me with wide, surprised eyes. By the look of her, I believe she was actually touched by the lengths I went to to protect her.

"Um, THANKS, Mom." She said.

"That was really nice of you."

"It's fine, Jane. I'm sorry he hit you again." I replied.

"You DO know, though, that that was Ben's drill, right?"

No. I did NOT know that.

Oops.